


No Strangers To Grief

by TinyGryphon



Category: Psychonauts (Video Games)
Genre: Abandoned Work - Unfinished and Discontinued, Blood and Injury, F/M, Light Angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-08
Updated: 2019-02-15
Packaged: 2019-10-24 13:07:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,612
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17704829
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TinyGryphon/pseuds/TinyGryphon
Summary: An elderly man's dull and lonely existence is disrupted by the arrival of an unexpected house guest, who has more in common with him than he realises.EDIT - This fic is discontinued, sorry! x-x; (more details in the Author's Notes)





	1. It's Raining, It's Pouring

**Author's Note:**

> Dedicated to Nasubionna, who has always been super friendly and supportive of both my artwork and writing <3
> 
> -
> 
> EDIT - I have decided to discontinue this fic, for the following reason:
> 
> As I was in the process of writing a third chapter, there was another shooting that happened in the news... as the climax of this fic was going to result in a shoot out at Papa Nein's shop, I no longer felt comfortable finishing what I was writing, as I didn't want to be adding to what is already an overabundance of gun violence in today's society.
> 
> Thankfully, I have plans to rework the ideas I was going to use here into another, less-violent fic, and you'll be able to read the first chapter of that... soon... ish... hopefully... >->;

The village was quiet... even more so than usual. The steady onslaught of rain had kept most of the inhabitants inside all day, and those who had ventured out into the damp, dismal weather, had now returned to their homes for the evening. Not that there was much sign it was sunset; the sky was still grey, the rain still drizzling. It had simply darkened slightly. A slowly darkening, desaturated world, shielded from any outside light or warmth by the looming grey clouds that had made the town their own for the day.

Past the raindrops and through the scuffed window of a lonely corner shop, an old man carefully returned the burnished metal tool he had been using to its resting place on a nearby shelf. His hand, pale and mottled with age and frequent use, moved to give his silvery moustache a weary, thoughtful stroke as he glanced down at his work for the day - a half-repaired leather shoe.

His broad-shoulders rose slightly and he let out a long, low exhale; a sigh that was barely audible over the gurgling drain-pipes outside. He glanced at the front window, squinting through his wire-rimmed spectacles at the trails of water worming their way down the glass outside and pooling on the deserted sidewalk below. The world was still dimming, and he made the decision that, although he perhaps hadn’t done all the work he intended to do for that day, he had definitely done all the work that he was going to do.

He placed his rough, worn hands on the surface of his working desk - a surface chipped and scratched from decades worth of hard use - and slowly eased himself upwards, off his stool and into a standing position. The wooden table and floorboards both creaked as they adjusted to the new centre of weight they now bore. The old man stood upright, stretching his aching back... and his bones creaked too.

He made his slow shuffling way through the shop, past the shelves of unbought shoes, past the shelves of waiting shoe repairs, past the shelves of shoe-repair pickups, and to the front door. A small brass bell hung over the door frame, to notify whenever a customer was entering. It had gathered a thick layer of dust across its polished surface, a sign that the door had not opened at all that day. Nor the day before. Or the one before that. He raised a single hand towards the small door window, and gently turned the old yellowed placard hanging from it to read ‘Closed’ to anyone looking in from outside. The small rusted lock clunked softly as he turned it and he gave the door handle a light tug to confirm that the door had indeed been locked, before making his way back past the shelves, and shelves, and shelves of handmade leather shoes, his large rough hands fumbling at the flimsy tie of his leather apron as he went.

The thick, heavy apron - freed at last from his broad, solid form - was hung neatly on the same wall-hook as always, and the old man stepped over the threshold that separated his working and living areas and into the room beyond.

-

The living room was warmer and more homely than the store out front, but only slightly. A long rust-coloured couch lay arranged with a few matching armchairs (all of which were bare, plain and unfurnished) around a low wooden coffee table, scuffed slightly from age and use, but far less so than any of his worktables. To the left there was a large wooden cabinet-like structure, with a ledge that protruded out from its surface half way down and spanned the entire width of its front face. To the right, an unlit brick fireplace, the mantlepiece of which bore a few desaturated old photos in burnished frames. And straight ahead, on the far side of the room, was a doorway leading to the kitchen.

The sound of the rain was less present here, more like a hushed whisper than a downpour, and the man let out a thankful weary sigh. Although the village was often drenched in rain - something unavoidable in Southern Germany - it was never something he was fond of. Or rather, it had become something he wasn’t fond of, ever since the rain one day had coincided with another, unbearably painful event in his life, ruining the gentle, cleansing atmosphere of falling rain for him, forever.

He glanced at the scarce-few faded photos resting on the ledge above the fireplace. The first was a woman, smiling and cheerful, her arms around a tall, broad-shouldered man with a thick dark moustache and glassy spectacles. A couple’s embrace, tender and sweet.

The woman was in the second photo too, somehow seeming even happier and more full of life than the first, her arms tightly wrapped around a small swaddled bundle. A baby. Her one and only son.

The third photo was just the man, and a young boy. Standing alone. And apart.

He had taken no further photos after that. There had been no purpose, or need. The house was empty now, as it had been for decades, and decades. There was no-one left to share memories with, so there had been no point left in making them.

The thought no longer caused him that much sorrow, he had been on his own long enough now that he had learned to simply accept it. It would be dinner for one as always tonight, and that was alright. He raised a hand to rest under his solid square jawline ponderously, and took a further step into the living area, heading for the door on the far side of the room, and assessing his options. Soup perhaps. Or chicken.

His train of thought was broken suddenly and completely, by the sound of a small bell ringing… the bell that hung directly above his shop-door.


	2. Blood and Blood Relations

The wrinkled folds of skin on his brow furrowed downwards, in a frown of disbelief. _The bell?_ He had locked that door, the store was closed. The old man stood stock-still and listened intently, wondering if he’d simply been hearing things. The floorboards in the shop groaned under new weight and movement, and the small bell was jostled a second time as the door slowly squeaked itself shut.

He raised a worn hand to his forehead and ran it through his short grizzled hair with a low weary sigh. He must’ve forgotten to lock the door, although... he clearly remembered doing so. Torn between exhaustion over his ‘apparently’ failing mind, and annoyance over the now unwanted customers, he shuffled his large lumbering form back around the way he’d come, and squinted blurrily through the doorway to see what on earth was going on.

There were two new figures now in the shop. The first was a man, tall, pale and slender. He wore a dark slim-fit suit, under which rested a thick woollen turtleneck in a soft neutral shade of brown. A pair of sleek sunglasses masked part of his face, making his expression difficult to read from a distance, and he took great care not to scuff his well-polished shoes on any of the store’s rough, loose floorboards as he moved himself into the room. His hands were tightly gloved, and currently wrapped around his companion, holding her upright.

The woman was also tall and slender, although she was anything but pale. She wore a vibrantly coloured dress, patterned with random splatters of orange, yellow, pink, and red. A tangle of brown hair cascaded down her back, a shade darker than her rich russet skin, and reaching well past her waist in length. It clung in lumps to both her skin and clothes, damp from the unavoidable shower outside. Her hands were also gloved, one pressed tightly against her side and the other clinging to her partner for balance.

She stumbled slightly, leaning heavily on her companion for support, and his grip on her tightened. He murmured something to her, in a gentle, reassuring tone, and - the old man realised after a moment - he spoke in English. Not German.

 _Tourists,_ the shopkeeper assessed tiredly, watching the couple as they took another awkward, wobbly step into his shop... _Drunk tourists,_ he corrected himself.

The shoemaker moved himself into the doorway, and stood with his shoulders as straight and as tall as his aching back would allow.

‘We’re closed,’ he grunted gruffly, in thick accented English, hoping his displeasure would be enough to deter the guests.

The younger man glanced up, away from his partner, and turned his attention to the old man instead. His own palid brow was also furrowed slightly, a crease that lessened at the sight of the shopkeeper, and his face seemed to lighten with… recognition? Relief?

‘We’re not here on business,’ he explained desperately. ‘Please father, I need whatever medical supplies you have.’

_Father._

The old man froze, stunned into silence. He squinted, studying the younger man more thoroughly; taking in the neat dark hair parted to one side, the strong square jawline, the dark eyes hiding behind the pair of wire-rimmed spectacles, the _impeccably_ cared for shoes. And, more than anything, the worried, pleading expression before him, and his heart ached with recognition.

_Sasha._

The shock took a moment to register. As did the request for the medical supplies.

He glanced down to where the woman held a gloved hand to her side, and realised that the red patch of colour on her dress... was not part of her dress at all, and was staining her pristine white glove with smears of slick, fresh blood. The old man felt a chill run down his spine. He took a deep, heavy breath, in an attempt to process what was going on.

‘You need a hospital.’ he managed at last.

‘No, no,’ Sasha quickly replied, shaking his head and gently adjusting his grip on the woman to help support her better. ‘They know she’s hurt, the hospital is the first place they’ll look.’

 _… they?_ This response had only set more questions alight in the shopkeeper’s mind. The crease on the his brow deepened even further in puzzlement, but the son simply continued on.

‘Please,’ he pleaded again. ‘We need water, towels, bandages…’

‘Something to sterlise,’ the woman prompted, in a soft, strained voice, her eyes squeezed tightly shut.

‘Yes,’ Sasha affirmed, turning his attention back to her, his worried brow creasing slightly again with a tender, affectionate concern. The sound of her voice seemed to give him strength, and when he glanced back up at the older man he now spoke with a strong and stubborn determination. ‘Whatever antiseptic you have, father, _now_.’

The urgency of the request, and the bewilderment of being ordered around by his own son - a son he had not seen for many, _many_ years - snapped the older man out of his daze and he obediently fumbled back into the living room, stumbling past the armchairs and coffee table on his way to fetch the requested supplies.

 _Sasha, Sasha…_ the old man ran his worn hand through his wiry, silvery hair a second time, and tried to recall what little he knew about his son.

He hadn’t heard much from him at all, not since the boy had left the dismal shoemaking life behind, back when he was only a teen, intent on finding - or making - a place for himself elsewhere. A place, the boy had said, where he could ‘belong’.

There had been a letter once (now laying in some dusty forgotten shoebox upstairs) briefly saying that the boy was living in America now, that he was content, and had found work as... a therapist? He was never entirely sure. The son had given little details, and the father had not taken the time to write back to ask.

Apart from that, there had been no contact, or sightings. Just… little things. Things that could easily be dismissed as coincidence, although the father had always suspected - and hoped - otherwise. Shoes that he didn’t remember fixing, suddenly sitting as good as new on his work desk in the morning. Fresh flowers and other small tokens randomly appearing on the boy’s mother’s grave... There had been a time where the old man had fallen into financial troubles, his craft no longer as desirable nor as profitable as it once was. He had received a follow-up message from the bank shortly after the first, thanking him for settling his account. An account that he had not paid off yet, at all.

Another man might’ve put it down to luck, or an error on the bank’s behalf, but the old shopkeeper, already aware of the strange other goings-on, was merely thankful for whatever shadow had been watching over him. A shadow that, apparently today, had come calling.

-

When he returned, he found the woman now resting upon his living room couch, facing inwards. She clung tightly to the back of the sofa with her clean gloved hand for balance and comfort, and slowly inhaled, slowly exhaled. Sasha knelt solemnly beside her, and gently brushed the tangled matted hair away from her face, and neck, and clothes. Hair that - the old man now realised - was matted with more than just water.

He moved into the room, slowly placing the shallow bowl of clean water he’d retrieved onto the low wooden table beside the pair, along with the other supplies - the towels, the bandages and dressings, and whatever antiseptic products he had managed to find in the bathroom cabinet. The younger man was far too distracted to even notice him, intently inspecting the torn, stained fabric that came into view as the woman slowly peeled her hand away from the wound. She pressed her forehead into the back of the couch, her eyes still closed, and her breathing still as slow, as deep, and as rhythmic as before.

Sasha reached out to her, to the wound, and gently, and with _great_ meticulous care, placed his hands against her ribcage and slowly stretched some of the torn fabric back, trying to get a better look. The woman inhaled sharply, and the old man watched as his son flinched, echoing the woman’s pain with his own distress. A moment passed, brief, tense, and silent. Eventually the son withdrew his hands, lifting one to brush a troublesome lock of hair out of his face, and glanced between the woman’s strained expression and the wounded area with uneasy hesitation.

‘Milla, I…’ He stopped himself almost immediately, anxiously biting at his thin pale lips.

 _Milla,_ the old man thought. _At least she has a name._

‘I can’t see what’s…’ the son began again. The woman shifted her weight, and lifted a hand to reach over the back of her stiff, tense shoulder, fumbling towards the neck of her dress.

‘Take it off.’ She instructed tiredly.

Sasha’s hands moved to help her, quickly finding the small clasp at the back of the dress, and gently placing a hand against her shoulder to steady the cloth as he slid the small zipper all the way down to her waist. She tugged down at the fabric around her shoulder, wincing as she moved, and his hands hurried to help her a second time, slowly freeing her arm from the dress and peeling the material back to expose more of her smooth bronzed skin. The old man turned to face away, respectful of the couple’s privacy. He didn’t need to be there at all, really, and he tried to force his thoughts to drift back to dinner, and his other nightly chores, to push the image of the torn, blood-stained fabric back out of his mind.

He quietly shuffled past the edge of the couch, being extra careful not to jostle it, and made his way towards the kitchen once more. The gentle voices of the young couple echoed quietly behind him as he moved.

‘Talk to me.’ The woman requested softly.

‘I…’ the son began. ‘I just see… it’s like a cut. I don’t think it’s too deep… You’re sure it was the gun?’

‘Mmhm,’ she murmured. ‘He fired, I moved, then pain.’

‘It must have... practically missed you. This is a gash, not a puncture.’

‘Lucky not everyone has aim like yours then, eh?’ She let out a breathy, humourless laugh.

‘I’ve told you, you need to shield, _shield._ ’ he scolded worriedly, unamused. ‘You know what Morry would say.’

‘Oh I shielded, baby,’ she countered. ‘It just tore _straight through._ ’

A pause. And then:

‘... psi- _piercing_ ammunition? That… that _would_ explain what happened to Henderson.’

There was another lengthy, silent pause, broken only by the soft creak of the woman shifting restlessly on the couch.

‘Sasha…’ She addressed. ‘You can science _later._ ’

‘Right. Yes. Sorry.’

He heard the soft clinking of his son jostling and sorting through the medical supplies, to set about cleaning and dressing the wound, and the old man quietly left the room.

-

It had gotten dark. The shopkeeper had decided against food; he felt he no longer had the appetite for it, and he thought preparing food for himself while there were guests in the next room might come across as rude, although he also didn’t want to interrupt them to ask. He had tried to busy himself upstairs, with cleaning, with laundry, but his routine had been disrupted and it was no easy task for him to get his mind back on track.

He had heard little else from his unexpected visitors during all his walks up and back down and back up the house again. Just an occasional remark, or soft encouragement now and then.

‘This is... really more your area of expertise than mine...’

‘You’re doing fine, sweetheart, shh...’

Eventually the house grew completely quiet once more. Even the rain outside had finally stopped its persistent onslaught, and only the _drip drip drip_ of water trickling down the gutter outside broke the silence. The old man settled down into one of the chairs at the kitchen table, and rested his tired head into his equally tired hands.

It wasn’t long before he heard the creak of the old house shifting again with movement, and glanced up in time to see his son emerge from the living area, his dark-gloved hands carrying the bowl, the towels, and the remains of the torn, bloody dress. His steps were lighter than the old man’s, and he manoeuvred around the edge of the scuffed table and to the sink with smooth, silent strides.

He slowly tipped and emptied the dirtied contents of the bowl down the drain, and set about rinsing it and the towels with warm, soapy water. The shopkeeper noticed, as the son was cleaning, that he no longer wore the thick, knitted sweater underneath his blazer, simply a plain white work shirt instead. It had become stained, perhaps, although he hadn’t brought it into the room with him, unlike the dress that now hung over the edge of the sink, dangling there like a tattered war banner of a lost cause.

It wasn’t until Sasha’s job was done that he took a long, slow breath in, then out, and turned to face his father, raising a single brow. Their eyes met across the table, and there was a lengthy, strenuous pause. The old man had too many questions, it was impossible to know where to start... and the son was unlikely to answer them, even if asked. He was too much like his father in that regard.

The shopkeeper sat himself upright, his shoulders tensing, and braced himself for whatever news the son _was_ about to say; news of the gun, or the ‘they’, or the state of the injured woman in the next room. What Sasha said, of course, was none of those things.

‘I have some important information I need to get back to my superiors.’ He announced at last. ‘It shouldn’t take long. No more than a day or two.’

The father nodded once, watching as his son casually dried his gloves on the small hand-towels hanging beside the sink, but said nothing. His son leaving was not news to him at all, nor was the presence of so many unanswered questions between them.

Sasha nodded once as well, in acknowledgement that his father had understood him, and lightly tugged at the lapels of his suit jacket, straightening it as he moved towards the back door. He reached it, placed a gloved hand over the tarnished doorknob, and paused, glancing back over his shoulder with soft thoughtfulness.

‘She doesn’t speak German.’ He gently explained. ‘She gets cold too easily… Keep her safe.’

‘Of course.’ His father grunted. There had never been any doubt.

Satisfied with the response, the younger man turned the handle with a soft squeak, and took one step out into the cold, dreary world beyond.

‘Sasha...’ the older man continued. Sasha halted in his exit and glanced back, his hand gently resting against the doorframe, patiently waiting to hear what his father had to say.

‘... the front door _was_ locked.’

The shopkeeper watched as the corners of his son’s mouth tugged upwards ever so slightly, and his brow was raised in feint innocence. It was a look he had seen often, when the boy was much, much younger, and it was comforting to know that, no matter how much time had passed - no matter how dire or bizarre the situation at hand - there were some things that would never change.

‘Your locks have always been inadequate.’ he replied at last. And with that he slipped out the door and into the darkness, and was lost to the night.


End file.
